


ELYSIUM

by MiniMoffat



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Gen, Maybe some more pairings, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9078619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniMoffat/pseuds/MiniMoffat
Summary: "There is no Sherlock Holmes-- there never has been.""What are you talking about?"Memories are more powerful than you think.Based off of a video by Pteryx Videos on YouTube.





	1. The disappearance of Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Elyisum](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/250867) by Pteryx Videos. 



It was as normal as any other day, he supposed. Vapor rub had been placed under his nose, arms crossed as he watched the man run his gloved hands over a partially decayed body. John was never fond of cases like this, though he was far from squeamish, as Lestrade had once accused him of being. No, he'd seen plenty of dead bodies in his day-- one he had seen by his own hands, even. John Watson knew that everyone died and it wasn't always the way that they had always dreamed of. Rarely was it ever as peaceful as someone had wanted. In this case, a young woman had been missing for weeks before her body was discovered, blue and bloated when it was dumped in her hotel's pool, the only footage of her being from the elevator the night she disappeared. John had suggested the use of drugs, as it had seemed obvious from the footage, only to be scoffed at. 

For a moment, his bleeding heart thought to the parents of the twenty three year old. It was no way you should have to see your child. Lips pressed into a tight line, back straightening as he visualized her mother gasping for air, her father denying that what appeared to be more a lump of flesh than a body could not be his daughter. Her seven year old brother would probably _never_ get to see his sister again. These visualizations were usually kept to himself, knowing full well that Sherlock's lack of compassion would only offer a raised brow in response. While he was doing _somewhat_ better when it came to empathy than when they first met, Sherlock was far from being a well rounded human being.

"I need to see her room." Sherlock stated, this time causing John's brow to raise instead. He wouldn't fight the man on the matter, however-- the reason he was called in was to find things that others could not, after all. Still, it seemed the manager who stood nearby didn't seem to grasp the concept.

"We've had many guests since the incident," Her voice was oddly calm and collected, though her crossed arms and the tapping of her long nails against her opposite forearm made it appear she was more _bored_ than anything else. "The maids have been in there a dozen times at least. What makes you certain you'll be able to find something that the police haven't?"

Even John couldn't stifle a chuckle at her. Lestrade took a deep breath, not wanting to deal with the verbal assault that was sure to come from the private detective. Clenching his teeth, he closed the gap between himself and the manager, resting a hand on her shoulder to try to urge her from the pool. Sherlock stood up straight, bright eyes rolling in annoyance as he moved back towards John.

"Everything alright?" John asked after a moment, taking note of the oddly quiet demeanor of the taller man. Rarely was he quiet during a case-- he seemed to find it easier to bounce ideas off of someone else, even days when John found it easier to be more of a wall than a conversation partner. Sherlock nodded, pulling his phone from his pocket and flipping it in his hand, moving only to type a few lines on his phone.

"Camera footage has been deleted, no signs of prolonged drug use, missing phone. This case is a waste of my time," Sherlock grunted, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Lestrade's got enough to go on to investigate the hotel manager, which means he _wants_ something from me. Time to complete his paperwork, no doubt."

"Excuse me?" John scoffed, glancing back to the dark hair of the girl laying on the pool's ground. "She's been on the news for the past three weeks, Sherlock. If Scotland Yard was able to pin anything on the manager, they would have found her. You really--" He paused, clenching his teeth slightly. "You really don't pay any attention to the outside world, do you?" The dark haired man raised a brow before lifting his hand for a dismissive wave. Sure-- he didn't particularly enjoy watching the media propaganda that was the _news_. However, in his mind, public pressure didn't assure that the police were doing their job.

"Like I'd watch that _rubbish_." Sherlock mumbled, turning on his heel to follow in the direction that Lestrade had ushered the living woman off towards-- to get the keys, he was certain. If he was lucky and Scotland Yard _had_ been doing their job, which Sherlock was still certain they had been neglecting, he'd at least have a proper run down and photos of her room when she was first declared missing. That is, if the hotel hadn't decided to trash her things before hand. He could tell by the nail polish and the way her eyeliner had been applied (which John would certainly insist was far too destroyed by the water to be able to tell), that she had decided this school trip was less about school than going out and partying in another country.

With his own annoyed sigh, John followed behind. It was cases like this that he wondered if he knew about the victim more than the _great_ Sherlock Holmes. He had seen nearly all of the press conferences with the teary eyed parents-- something that his flatmate would _never_ bother to watch, no matter how much useful information could be hidden within their sobs. For all he knew, it could reveal that her mother had flown there a few days prior and they had gotten into a domestic. Granted, he was certain that Sherlock would never believe that _any_ case could be that simple if he were called in. Nothing was as it appeared-- you needed to question everything, even if it seemed an impossible outcome. _That's_ why it seemed so strange that he was so dismissive of this case.

However, to John's surprise, Sherlock seemed to be going along with it. As much disdain was hidden within his expressions, he bit his tongue as they walked down the hallway of the fifth floor towards the room she had been staying in. Something seemed to be eating at him, the blonde could tell. However, why he kept it a secret, he wasn't quite sure.

Once the door opened, the woman rolled her eyes at the three of them. Certainly, she seemed less bored now that the other police officers were left downstairs with the body and the detective, the private detective, and the assistant were the only ones to bombard her with questions. Sherlock was the first in the room, blue eyes scanning the tacky hotel artwork that adorned the walls. John could tell that he was completely disregarding the explanation Lestrade was giving him about what they had done in their primary search of the room-- how everything had been overturned. Sherlock forced a smile upon his lips, forcing a little bit of unease within John's bones, as he turned to look at Greg and the woman.

"I'm going to need access to the rooms across the way and on either side." Sherlock demanded, "I want footage for any cameras you have on the roof as well."

"The roof?" The woman asked, a tone that suggested she didn't take any of his requests seriously. "The only camera we have on the roof is footage for the doorway." It was getting more and more obvious that the tallest of the men there was getting increasingly more annoyed at the brunette.

"And here I thought you'd be competent for once," He scoffed, the smallest hint of a smile forming upon his lips. It was more to signal his own enjoyment at her inability to be helpful in any way than anything else. "Surely your _lovely_ attitude and your willingness to help us in any way that you can suggests that you _weren't_ the one to drown a younger, objectively more attractive girl. Let me guess-- you found her in the back room with your girlfriend. Oh, no--" He paused for a moment, turning back towards her just for a moment to look her up and down, a grimace now replacing the amusement that had been there moments before, "Not girlfriend. You're not the type to mix romance and work, obviously. No-- the person you're dating is a man, isn't it? And oh, how you _love_ him, that's why you find pleasure with the maids. No matter-- that's not _my_ business. What's _my_ concern is your reliability as a witness, or are you not concerned with the public image of you and your hotel?"

It was pretty obvious that Sherlock had hit a nerve, as he always did. Her mouth had dropped halfway through his monologue and Lestrade was pinching the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in annoyance. However, it certainly did force her to stand up straight and nod in his direction, begrudgingly agreeing to get him everything he had asked for. The woman stormed out of the room, the head of Scotland Yard following in her footsteps.

" _Finally._ " Sherlock groaned, "Now go deadbolt the door."

"Are you ever _not_ a complete ass?" John asked, though he did what he was told.

"I did what was necessary to get her out of my way as quickly as possible," He shrugged, moving to take one of the paintings down from the wall to examine behind it. "And since I know you're thinking it, _no_ , she's not the murderer." John shook his head, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

"I didn't _think_ she was the murderer." John stated, causing Sherlock's brows to knit tightly together for a moment as he glanced back at him.

"Are you certain? I thought she'd be the obvious one to pin it on." In truth, that was _precisely_ why John didn't think it was her in the first place.

The private detective tossed one of the cheap paintings towards the floor upon not finding whatever it was he was expecting. He followed by picking up another one of the small cheap ones, this time going so far as to peel up the cheap canvas from the wooden frame it was poorly glued to. Disappointment flashed across his features once more, though it lasted only a moment before he tossed it on the ground once more.

Then, the sound of something shaking caused the two of them to stop. Sherlock turned back towards his flatmate, glancing at him as if he was to explain what had happened behind both of their backs. In truth, John gave him a similar look back towards him. He was the smarter one, after all. Surely, Sherlock would have insisted that John should know as he wasn't doing anything _actually_ important. The two of them turned towards the bed, glancing at the large picture above the bed as it continued to shake.

"Sherlock...?" John stated, unsure what else he was supposed to say. The other seemed to be _more_ excited, however. Obviously, it wasn't the case closed scenario he had once thought it was going to be. The lanky man jumped on the bed, rushing towards the wall. Gloved hands rested upon the painting, this time an actual smile forming upon his pale features. Really-- it was only mysteries like this that could get Sherlock to _actually_ smile for amusement rather than to taunt someone else. John, however, took a step back from the wall, trying to keep his ears peeled for any sign of what might have been causing it. He couldn't hear anything coming from the other side of the wall, nor did he assume Sherlock could by the way he was slowly taking down the cheap painting. 

"What in the name of..." John cut himself off, taking another step back until he bumped against the wall behind him. Sherlock, on the other hand, set the painting down as he examined the crack in the wall as it opened further, revealing a bright white light. The smile upon his lips only grew wider as he reached into the crack. "Sherlock, what the hell are you--?"

"Oh come on, John. Don't be so boring." Sherlock snapped back as the light continued to fill the room. John stood in horror as it seemed to wrap itself around the man, trying to pull him into whatever it lead to. Clenching his teeth, John finally shook his head.

"Nope. There's _something_ in the air vent, there _must_ be." John insisted. Grabbing the key to the room from the desk beside him, he raised his hands and turned away from the other. "I'm going to go find Lestrade. He'll--" He'll what? Know that something wasn't _actually_ there? That's all he could hope for.

Everything sounded muffled as John crossed the short hallway to exit the room. John took a deep breath, leaning against the door as it closed behind him. It was only a few moments before his brows furrowed once again, taking note that he could no longer hear Sherlock calling after him. Rolling his eyes, the vet couldn't help but feel annoyance at how much he actually _worried_ about his flatmate, as aggravating as he was. Turning once more, John inserted the key and opened the door. As soon as he opened it, he froze in place. The light was no longer there, and while he couldn't see the wall behind the bed from where he stood, he could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Something was wrong-- he couldn't quite place what it was, though.

Slowly, he took the same few steps to stand back near the TV stand once more. However, to his horror, there was now no one inside the room, nor was there a crack with a bright light being emitted from it. John turned back towards the hallway, eyeballing the door to the restroom, which remained wide open. Clenching his teeth tightly together, he moved towards the window-- both sides closed, though he assumed they would only be able to open an inch or two anyways.

"Sherlock...?" No noise greeted him back, forcing an unease that John hadn't felt since before he had returned from Afghanistan. It was the sickening feeling that something terrible had happened, but you couldn't quite place what it was. It was only a moment before he heard a key inserted into the door once more. His gaze moved towards Lestrade and the manager, a wave of relief flooding over him to not be alone once more.

"Who the hell are you?" Lestrade spat out, catching John more than slightly off guard.

"Come on-- Sherlock's go--"

"This is a police investigation!" The officer boomed, closing the gap between the two of them. John felt the other's hand grip his arm tightly, dragging him towards the doorway. He stammered an explanation-- that Sherlock was missing, though no recognition registered upon the other's face, and soon enough, the door was being slammed in his face.

John stood there for a long moment, just staring at the number plate in front of him. Room 511. _Something_ happened in that room. Something had taken Sherlock Holmes away, but he couldn't quite explain _what_ had without seeming crazy. It must have had something to do with the case of the girl by the pool-- it was too strange _not_ to be a coincidence.

If that was true, though, how long did he have before Sherlock showed up as a dead body?


	2. Ghost

  Something was wrong-- more wrong than he had initially thought. His mind had been reeling as he sat in the back of the black cab, trying to get a grasp on what had happened inside of the hotel room. John had begun to expect the impossible-- certainly, his friend must have simply been hiding under the bed, right? That, or he was in the closet, checking for a blood sample with his black light that must have been found on the painting he had brought down from the wall. There was no way in hell that there was some _crack_ that could have swallowed a person whole.

  Things were quickly getting more and more strange, however. While still in the cab, John pulled his phone from his pocket, quickly dialing one of the more familiar numbers. The whole situation could easily be explained away by Sherlock, that’s all that there had to be. One ring, then two, then _nothing_. No dial tone, no busy signal. It simply stopped ringing. John tried once more, annoyance building when once again, it rang twice before completely cutting off. He tried one more number, trying to justify everything in his mind.

  “Oh, John! How nice it is to hear from you, dear.” A cheerful voice cooed as soon as she picked up.

  “Yes, right, Mrs. Hudson-- has Sherlock come home? It seems I’ve lost him while we were on a case-- figured he must’ve run home for something.” It didn’t _quite_ make sense, but it was far easier to explain that than what he thought he knew. There was a long pause on the other end and he could almost see the older woman fiddling in her kitchen.

  “Sherlock…?” It sounded almost as if she was testing the name, like it didn’t fit in her vocabulary. Surely, she said it at _least_ three times a day, though. Sherlock could barely function without her. “Is that one of your friends?”

  “Very funny, Mrs. Hudson. Is he putting you up to this?” John couldn’t help but scoff, physically shaking his head despite the fact that she couldn’t see it. Was this some kind of joke? First Lestrade had seemed not to understand what he was saying, but now Mrs. Hudson of all people was playing along with it. Why the hell would she do such a thing?

  “John, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” She insisted, “Was that your friend you brought around last week?”

  “Come on, Mrs. Hudson.” John chuckled nervously, his free hand tapping against the leather seat underneath him. When there was still no recognition, he began to feel a little nervous. “You know, the tall asshole that I live with. Got your husband in jail?” The man was trying to be playful with his last question, remembering his first introduction to the woman. “He’s the one that introduced me to you.”

  This time, it was her turn to laugh nervously. He could hear the sound of her teacup shaking upon the saucer as she set it down.  
  “Is this a friend that showed you the advert, then?” She sounded a bit more excited, as if she had mentally placed where this mysterious Sherlock had come from and was proud of herself. Taking a deep breath, he couldn’t help but feel his heart fall to the pit of his stomach.

  “Alright-- nevermind. I’ll see you.” He said, not bothering to listen to her apologies for not remembering before turning his phone off. He was only a couple blocks away before he tapped the glass between him and the driver, trying to mentally place where Sherlock may have gone.

  “St. Bartholomew’s, please.”

  221B Bakerstreet was conveniently located to the hospital, he assumed by design. Sherlock Holmes had probably planned this out long before he had known Mrs. Hudson, knowing that at some point, she would have the tenant upstairs move out and she would owe him a favor. He enjoyed Sherlock, certainly, but he could definitely be manipulative when he wanted to be.

  John’s hands dug deep into his jacket’s pocket as he walked through the halls. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, his gaze searched for any sign of Sherlock Holmes. In truth-- it was the only place he could really think that the other would have gone aside from home. There was no way in hell he would have gone to visit his brother, though he may have to check in with Mycroft and his ever watchful gaze if this game of hide and go seek became too much. 

  If anyone asked, he would have insisted that he wasn’t worried. Sherlock did his own thing all the time. Why would now be any different than all the other times he had run off on his own? What he _thought_ he saw had nothing to do with his disappearance. He was drugged, obviously. That’s what happened to that poor girl and she had paid the ultimate price for it. However, now, John was trying to remain absolutely composed as he entered the lab.

  His nerves subsided a little when Molly glanced up from the microscope, a wide smile forming upon her lips as she took note of the visitor.

  “John, it’s been a while.” She said, her soft voice more than enough of a comfort for the time being. It forced a smile upon his own lips as well as she seemed to not be playing along with whatever Sherlock’s game was. He appreciated that she would think of him when the other was being overly cruel. 

  “Yeah, I guess it has, hasn’t it?” He stated with a nod, glancing towards everything that was splayed in front of her for any sign of Sherlock. Nothing seemed overly obviously connected to the case they had been working, but he supposed that the other hadn’t really shared what had been on his mind. All John had to go on was that Sherlock had been looking at the paintings-- particularly their frames, for a clue. “Speaking of, have you seen Sherlock at all?”

  Molly’s brows knit tightly together, glancing back from her work to John once more. She thought for a moment, her nail tapping against the table the microscope rested upon.  
  “Who’s Sherlock?” She asked after a moment, causing the unease to rise within John once more.

  “Are you kidding?” John asked, taking in the actual confusion that she couldn’t have faked. Molly Hooper had been in love with Sherlock-- to have her looking at him with absolutely _no_ recognition-- to be able to actually ask _who_ he was, was ridiculous. While he believed she would be able to pretend he was dead for any possible reason he may need, he couldn’t believe she would be able to pretend he didn’t exist. Molly simply shook her head, opening her mouth to speak before closing it once more as she took note of his expression.

  The woman stood from her stool, a smile forming upon her lips once more. Raising her hand towards the other to signal one moment, she allowed her smile to widen just a little bit.

  “How about I get us some tea?” She insisted, obviously hoping that it would calm the vet down. Why did it feel like everyone was walking on eggshells around him? John simply nodded, finding it easier that way than to get angry at her. She didn’t deserve his anger-- not for what Sherlock was doing. Or… _was_ he doing it? Was he actually going insane?

  John didn’t wait around for the tea. As soon as Molly was out of view, he had turned to leave once more. This time, he was running through the hall, though. He couldn’t keep himself still. Something was going very, very wrong, and he didn’t enjoy not knowing. Actual panic was beginning to lace his veins, his mind beginning to race.

  What if the crack _had_ been real? What if it had consumed him somehow? How would that even be possible? It couldn’t! However, he could almost hear Sherlock yelling in his mind, telling him to stop being so daft. The abuse wasn’t from the idea that he had been… _eaten_ by a crack, however. It was that John was ruling out what seemed to be an impossibility despite the fact that it seemed it was becoming more and more probable.

  He wasn’t even sure where his feet were taking him until he was actually in the lobby of the Scotland Yard. As he had walked, anger was bubbling within him. Still, despite the probability, he clung to the idea that this was a sick joke. Clenching his teeth tightly together, he was lucky enough to see Greg Lestrade in the lobby, speaking with another detective.

  The blonde rushed up towards the other, only to have the head of Scotland Yard glance towards him uncomfortably, seeming to only recognize him from the day before. It happened quickly-- John had grabbed Lestrade by the collar, refusing to let go of him even when the other detective tried to pull him off.

  “Where is he?!” John yelled, his voice echoing through the lobby, causing people’s heads to turn. “Where the hell is Sherlock?!”

  The other seemed bewildered, only calming a little once another detective properly pulled John off of him. Lestrade took a couple steps back, gritting his teeth.

  “Who the hell is Sherlock?!” He said, while much quieter than John, was just as harsh.

  “Sherlock Holmes. Fucking Sherlock _Holmes_ , your _friend_.”

  That was only met by a laugh from someone behind him and a disgusted look from the detective. John glanced back towards the woman who had laughed, trying to keep himself calm.

  “You think this is funny?” Obviously, his attempts at remaining calm had been in vain.

  “You’re looking for Sherlock Holmes. Of course it’s funny.” He recognized her-- a tabloid writer who had been along for some of Sherlock’s higher profile cases. She was most likely the witness to something and had been called in for questioning. John shook his head, confusing overtaking him.

  “And what’s so funny about that? My friend’s gone missing and you’re all acting like I’m crazy!”

  “Maybe you should lea--” Lestrade tried to interject.

  “--you’re looking for a character from a _book_!” Kitty couldn’t help but laugh, the sick pleasure obvious.

  “A character from a book?”

  “There is no Sherlock Holmes, there never has been!"

"What are you talking about?" John's voice shook, knowing that the reporter in front of him had used Sherlock many times to help gain her popularity for those popular cases. There was no way in hell she would play along with Sherlock's games if he had them. How would she even _know_? Sherlock wouldn't risk it getting out. Was he blackmailing her?

“He’s a character from a book-- a famous detective!” John could feel his hands beginning to shake, unable to keep his mind from spinning. Lestrade closed the gap between the two of them, placing his hand on John’s back.

  “Come on, let’s get you out of here. You should go home-- sober up a bit.” He immediately shook the detective off, glancing at him as if he was the one spouting nonsense. Naturally, he was, after all. How was it possible that Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, seemed to have been erased from existence? It just didn’t make sense. It wasn’t _possible._ However, he was able to force himself to look guilty-- as if he _was_ on drugs, and make his way for the door.

  He was lucky Lestrade had saved Sherlock’s ass so many times. If it were any other detective, he was certain he would have been locked up as soon as his hands had been on the other’s collar. Running a hand through his hair, he kept his eyes locked on the marble below him. He couldn’t stand to see everyone still looking at him, whispering about the man who believed Sherlock Holmes was a real person, insisting that John was crazy.

 _Was_ he crazy?


End file.
